


the miracle of Chanukah

by stirringsofconsciousness



Series: Berte and Krugkoppe [4]
Category: Original Work, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU where everyone is an Ashkenazi Jew except for Veronica who is Sephardi, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jewish, Chanukah, F/M, First Kiss, a game of dreidel, a tip of the hat to Sholem Aleichem, chag sameach, content warning - abuse, content warning - suicidal tendencies, the food the beautiful food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stirringsofconsciousness/pseuds/stirringsofconsciousness
Summary: "I was -- I need your help." Krugkoppe couldn't imagine any way that he could help Berte, but he nodded anyway. "Velvela the innkeeper's daughter is having a party tonight for the first night of Chanukah. I made a special dreidel for the party." From her pocket she withdrew a dreidel, a simple four-sided top, the kind children spun every year at Chanukah. "But Mama won't let me play with the boys, and only the boys play for money. Can you play for me?"
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Berte and Krugkoppe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577683
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	the miracle of Chanukah

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to beta-readers sullypants and the aptly-named lovelee, to my dearest friend village_skeptic who helped me track down all the historical sources I needed, and to whatthegirlbecomes, whose love for Berte and Krugkoppe keeps inspiring me to write more. 
> 
> set roughly two years after "good signs and good luck" and two years before "as the good book says". timing is roughly during Chanukah in the year 1908, and located in a tiny shtetl in the Western edge of Galicia.

There were many ways that rabbis explained away the basic unfairness of the world. Hashem, He of the Holy Name, Master of the Universe, has a plan for everything that we can’t see. In the World to Come, the poor would eat at golden tables, while those who did well in this life would have their portions reduced accordingly. _Midah keneged midah_ , a deed begets a deed, another might say. If you had mistreated someone, you would have your own fortune adjusted accordingly. 

But this didn’t make any sense, in Krugkoppe’s experience. 

Take Avrum and Reuven. Both boys were classmates of Krugkoppe, well-liked but not exactly brilliant. Avrum was the most cheerful boy anyone could know, kind to everyone, and although his father Freyde was only a builder, he built his house strong and tall and Avrum never needed to worry about being cold in the winter. But Reuven, the butcher’s son, was spoiled and cruel, and even if Krugkoppe could outscore him on any test, Krugkoppe would have to hold his tongue, lest Reuven beat it out of him. And yet Reuven would be going to yeshiva next year, because his father wanted to say that he had a son who was a scholar, even though no one could be less suited for a life with books. Where was the justice in this?

To Krugkoppe’s mind, the world was simpler. It all came down to luck: you had it or you didn’t. No need to bring Hashem into it. (As far as Krugkoppe was concerned, He, Hashem, was lucky that He lived so high, or else he, Krugkoppe, would be sorely tempted to smash in His windows.) 

His friend Avrum, now, Avrum was the luckiest guy he knew, the type who would trip over his own foot and come up with a zloty. But Krugkoppe -- Krugkoppe, the son of the town shikker, was the biggest schlimazel of them all. The ways in which he lacked luck could sometimes be comical, but now, with winter bearing down, it felt decidedly less so.

In the years since his mother had left, divorcing his father and taking his younger sister back with her to her hometown, his father had taken the divorce license as a license to drink more. His father rarely worked to begin with -- now he rarely showed up at their house at all. 

There was no _hekdesh_ , no community poorhouse, in Taykh Taykh, and no way for Krugkoppe to get to a larger city that would have one. There was a room in the community synagogue, where the wealthy could drop off food or goods for the benefit of the poor. Krugkoppe checked the room every day, but nothing ever appeared. 

Krugkoppe had needed to beg before -- if he had been proud, he would have never been able to survive until the age of nearly 15 -- but now he did not know even who to ask for help. 

Chanukah was approaching, the minor festival where you cooked with oil and lit candles to remember the miracles Hashem had made thousands of years ago. When Krugkoppe looked in his house’s stores, he found only enough cooking oil to make food for one night, let alone lighting the menorah’s lamps. 

He would need a miracle to survive. 

And Krugkoppe did not believe in miracles. 

\---

Chanukah would start that night, but Krugkoppe did not go to school. What was the point anymore of being stuffed in a room with the other boys and girls, hearing their laughter and teasing not quite drown out the rumbling in his belly?

Instead, he went down to the river, his favorite place in all the town when the weather was warmer. The early winter sky was clear and cold. No snow fell yet, and the river still flowed. Soon it would be partially covered with ice. He and Avrum had made a game of treading on its treacherous frozen surface, daring the ice to hold their weight. Even in the summer, the water was always cold. 

He laid down on a large rock near the bank of the river, his favorite rock to read on in good weather. 

The water would be shockingly cold now, if he fell in. If he jumped in. If he walked in, with his eyes open, with rocks weighing his pockets down so that he could not fight the decision he was making.

It would be faster than any alternative. And his body would be unlikely to be found. Perhaps he could come back as a _dybbuk_ , the sort of spirit that could possess a human, and haunt Reuven as a prank -- make him read books as a torment.

He let his weight shift towards the edge of the rock. Perhaps gravity would take over, and he wouldn't have to think anymore -- 

"Krugkoppe?"

The voice jerked him out of his reverie, his head shooting up so fast he nearly beaned himself on a low-hanging branch. Berte the cooper's daughter was standing a few feet away from his rock, her mittened hand grabbing at a tree trunk. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, befuddled. He took off his hat so he could better check if his head was bleeding. 

"You weren't in school today," Berte said. 

Krugkoppe shrugged before jamming his hat back on his head. "It's almost a holiday." 

"You'll fall behind in your schoolwork," Berte said. Krugkoppe laughed, and Berte looked at him reproachfully. "It's important to do well in school," she said, crossing her arms. "And it's important to attend."

"What's the point?" Krugkoppe couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. "It's not as though I'll be able to go to university, no matter how good a student I am. And my father has no trade to teach me." _Besides what's found at the bottom of a bottle_ , he didn't have to say.

Berte looked at him coolly. "You still have more options than some. Perhaps some man without a son will take you on as an apprentice."

Krugkoppe snorted. "I'm not so loved by the men of this town, either." Berte looked hurt at his flippancy, and he felt a twinge of shame. Berte could be odd sometimes, rigid and strict about rules to the point of nonsense, but she was generally all right for a girl. "Why did you come here, anyway?" _She surely couldn't have known what I was thinking._

_ Right? _

"I was -- I need your help." Krugkoppe couldn't imagine any way that he could help Berte, but he nodded anyway. "Velvela the innkeeper's daughter is having a party tonight for the first night of Chanukah. I made a special dreidel for the party." From her pocket she withdrew a dreidel, a simple four-sided top, the kind children spun every year at Chanukah. "But Mama won't let me play with the boys, and only the boys play for money. Can you play for me?"

"What?"

"I need money," she said patiently, like he was as thick as Mendel, "and you're the only one who can help."

"By playing dreidel?" Krugkoppe replied. Had he hit his head harder than he'd realized? "Berte, dreidel is a game of chance. You land on gimmel and win it all, you land on shin and you lose, nun gets you nothing, hey gets you half the pot -- you can't make money that way. What do you even need money for?"

"If you're the one spinning it, this dreidel will always win at Velvela's house," Berte replied serenely. "Can you play for me?"

"I can't," he said. "I'm not invited to Velvela's party."

"Come with me, as my guest," she replied.

"That will surely please Velvela," he snorted, and Berte smiled wryly. "But you need to put in money to play a game of dreidel, and I don't have any," he said. 

"I can give you something to start, and we can divide the winnings," she said, like it was nothing. "Now, will you help me?"

It was a thunderclap, how quickly the pieces came together: Berte was trying to give him money in a way he wouldn't reject. Her pity filled his mouth with ashes.

He felt a surge of anger at Berte, gentle Berte, who had a father who made things with his hands and a mother who minded their shop so fiercely that no goy ever dreamed of cheating her out of her due, so that Berte could go around with a purse of copper and silver coins, and be able to hand it out as poorly-disguised charity.

“I can’t go tonight,” he said dully, refusing her outstretched hand.

“What, what else have you to do?” she said bluntly.

He flushed and averted his eyes from her piercing stare. “I don’t want you to give me money out of pity.”

Some girls would have blushed or fluttered: Berte set her jaw firmly. “It’s not pity, Krugkoppe! I’m asking you to do me a favor, because I trust you! If you’re so full of yourself and your pride that you can’t go to Velvela’s party to help your friend, then you can go lie in the ground and burn bagels!”

After that, he couldn't refuse. She had to take off her mittens to hand him the metal coins, which were so cold they almost burned to touch. "I'll see you tonight," she said. "Don't be too late."

“How do you know that I’ll show up? That I won’t run off with your money?” he shouted at her retreating figure.

Berte didn’t turn around, but her answer carried to him anyway. “You would never break your promise to me.”

\---

In the end, he went to the Chanukah party, because Berte had asked him to do so, and he could not remember Berte ever asking anyone for anything before. Krugkoppe didn't usually think much of girls -- didn't think much of people, really -- but Berte wasn't like other girls. Most of the people in the village would have nothing to do with him, but Berte was always kind to him. Sometimes she'd join him by the river to read. A few years ago she had taken his hat and expanded it somehow, without saying a word to him about what she was doing. The memory of her kindness itched at him, a burden he'd never had a way to relieve himself from until now. 

He found his way to Velvela's house (the fanciest in the shtetl, even more than the shul) by the scent of frying onions and potatoes more than anything else. 

Velvela answered the door, wrinkling her nose when she saw Krugkoppe on the other side. "Oh, it's you," she said bluntly. "Try not to get your stink on anything."

Krugkoppe was too hungry to say anything but the truth. "All I'll touch is the food," he promised. Velvela rolled her eyes but let him in.

The food, the beautiful food. The smell alone was enough to make his eyes water, and not just from the onions. There was more food than he could ever remember seeing in one room before. There were potato latkes, of course, but also cheese dumplings, sweet kugels, deep-fried doughnuts that he had no name for but must be from Velvela's Sephardi traditions. All the dishes were paired with bowls of sour cream and applesauce and pear butter. 

He loaded a plate and got to eating. 

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his wrist. "Why aren't you with the others?" Berte hissed in his ear. "The game is starting." She grabbed his plate away and dropped something smooth and cold in his nearly-empty hands, and then closed his hand around it. "Remember, you promised me."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry -- " Krugkoppe said.

"Don't spin it too hard, it's very delicate!" Berte snapped as she pushed him towards the other room.

As he stumbled in, he saw four of his classmates sitting around a small table. "Room for one more?" he asked weakly. 

"We play for money, not staring at the sky," Reuven sneered.

"Don't be a dick," Avrum said to Reuven. 

"Yeah. He's harmless, even if he smells bad. Here, come sit." Kreindel shifted around the table so he was sitting on the same side as Mendel, leaving a space for Krugkoppe.

Krugkoppe approached the table slowly. With one hand, he dug around for the kopeks Berte had given him before. His other hand opened around what Berte had given him, revealing it for all to see: a small dreidel, prettily decorated and painted, very unlike the wooden tops the other boys were spinning. It was clearly a girl's dreidel, and the other boys snorted at the sight. 

"Wait until you see it spin," Krugkoppe quipped. Avrum laughed, and after he did, Kreindel and Mendel joined in, though Reuven still sneered. 

"Let's begin," Avrum said. "I'll start." He spun the dreidel, and quickly Krugkoppe remembered that dreidel was actually quite a boring game, and tried not to think about how he was missing the food being passed out. 

Finally, it was Krugkoppe's turn. Mindful of Berte's warning, he half-heartedly flicked his wrist and spun the dreidel onto the table. It wobbled weakly, to the jeering of the other boys, and then landed on gimmel. 

"Nice!" Avrum said, clapping Krugkoppe on the back.

"What a shitty throw," Mendel laughed.

"Beginner's luck," scoffed Reuven.

Krugkoppe collected the pot and put in another five kopeks for the next round. Avrum spun a hey, Kreiden a shin, Mendel a nun, Reuven a shin -- and Krugkoppe got another gimmel.

They anted up again.

By the fifth round, Krugkoppe had spun a gimmel every time, and none of the boys were laughing anymore. By the eighth, Krugkoppe had more money in front of him than he had ever seen in his entire life.

"You're cheating, you little fucker," Reuven accused.

"How is he supposed to be cheating?" Kreindel asked. "It's dreidel, for shit's sake."

"Give it here," Reuven demanded. Krugoppe handed over Berte's dreidel reluctantly. Reuven squinted at each side of the little top, then Mendel, Kreindel, and Avrum inspected it in turn.

"Are you cheating, Krugkoppe?" Avrum asked solemnly, looking him in the eye.

"No," Krugkoppe said emphatically. He was not cheating. He was playing for Berte, and so her luck was working for him. 

After another few rounds, the other boys ran out of money, and Krugkoppe had a small fortune of kopeks gleaming in front of him.

"The king of dreidel!" Avrum said good-naturedly, and Kreindel and Mendel took their losses in stride. Reuven scowled at him, but that was how Reuven always looked, anyway.

They trooped back to the main room, where the party was breaking up. The other boys grabbed their things and headed home, but Berte intercepted Krugkoppe before he left. She pulled him into a side room -- there were so many rooms in this house -- and closed the door, taking away all the noise from the party.

Krugkoppe was suddenly very aware that he was alone with Berte in a small room, and that she looked very pretty in her dress.

Berte held out her hand, and for a moment he forgot why she was waiting for him. Off of her impatient huff, he poured the kopeks from his hands into hers, making sure not to brush her fingers. She swiftly counted them on a small side table. "Not enough," she murmured to herself. Then she divided them into two equal piles. "Will you come again tomorrow night?" she asked him.

"To where?" Krugkoppe replied, unaware of why her eyes were focused so intently on him, why his palms were sweaty.

"Here at Velvela's house, for tomorrow's party."

"She's having another Chanukah party?"

"She will if I ask her to," Berte replied. "Will you play dreidel for me again?"

"O-of course," he replied.

She pushed one pile towards him, then counted out another five kopeks from her pile. "Your stake for tomorrow. And here," she continued, pulling out a small basket. "I saved some of the food from the courses that came out while you were playing."

A more perfect woman could not exist. 

\---

The stores were closed by the time the party ended and the guests had all dispersed, but Krugkoppe knew a woman who sold things from her home, an old acquaintance of his father's. From her he bought cooking oil, fuel for the fire, and a thick blanket. Between that and the extra pastries he snuck from Velvela's place, he felt almost comfortable for the first time since his father left.

(Left. He won't say died. He doesn't know if he died.)

(He doesn't know how he would find out, one way or the other.)

Back in his home, a fire burning and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Krugkoppe spun the dreidel over and over again, like a fever had taken over him. 

He had read a story once, about a dreidel that always came up gimmel. The trick in the story was that the dreidel had been painted so that all sides had only gimmel on it. But on this dreidel, Berte's dreidel, all the right letters had been painted with a pretty hand. 

Nun, gimmel, hey, shin -- when he spun the dreidel at his home, all came up. Only when he was spinning the dreidel at Velvela's party -- when he spun on behalf of Berte -- did the dreidel always come up gimmel.

It was like a miracle was happening, when he spun the dreidel for Berte's sake and not his own. He had never seen a miracle happen before, had never believed in them. Perhaps they only happened for people like Berte, who were naturally lucky and good. 

It was something, at least, to have the tiniest of roles to play in Berte's miracle, in Berte's life. 

\---

The next day, Krugkoppe went to school. Berte was there, though she paid no attention to him, sticking closely to Velvela and the other girls. Avrum clapped him on the back, though, and told the other boys about how good he was at dreidel. 

That day there were three more boys spinning dreidel at the table. Krugkoppe won every time. And again, afterwards Berte pulled him aside, counted out the winnings, divided it in half neatly, and gave him such extra food. 

The next morning, he stopped at the cobbler's before school began and got his feet fitted for new boots, boots that no one would have ever worn before. 

\---

On the third night, halfway through the dreidel game, Krugkoppe felt the hairs on the back of his neck crawling. He looked behind him, and saw Velvela's father Hyram leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the boys play. Krugkoppe felt himself wobble almost as much as his dreidel did.

When the game was over, Krugkoppe got up to meet with Berte, but Hyram intercepted him, blocking him from the door.

"That's a good trick you've got going," Hyram said.

Krugkoppe did not dare meet Hyram's eyes. He instinctively felt that it was not safe to hold Hyram's full attention. Hyram was like a cat lazily toying with his prey: Krugkoppe was never sure when he would swoop down for the kill. 

"It's not a trick, sir," he said. "I'm just lucky, I guess."

"You, or your dreidel," Hyram said. "If you've finished playing for the night, I could take the _lucky_ marvel off of you. For five zlotys, would you part with it?"

Five zlotys was more than Krugkoppe had ever had in his whole life. If he would be careful with it, it could feed him for a year. His stomach rumbled in a mixture of pain and pleasure at the thought.

But it was not just a dreidel he was playing with, it was Berte's dreidel. Berte, who asked him to do this and not tell anyone, who divided the money he won in half each night before giving him a stake for the next. He owed her so much, he could not desert her now.

"It's not for giving away," Krugkoppe said, though he knew Hyram had registered the hunger on his face and marked the lever he could have on him. 

"Some advice, then," Hyram said smoothly. "No trick lasts forever. And people don't like being fooled. The organ grinder needs to leave with his monkey after he takes all the coppers before the novelty wears off."

Krugkoppe nodded, though he did not understand.

"My offer stands at eight zlotys. For tonight only, you understand."

Krugkoppe shook his head.

"You're the son of your father, all right," Hyram said. "Be careful, or you'll come to a similar end."

Hyram turned around and left, but Krugkoppe was frozen in place until Berte came to get him. 

_ He can't know. Can he? _

\---

The fourth night was erev Shabbat, so the party was earlier and the coins distributed before kiddush. The fifth night of Chanukah, the party couldn't start until after havdalah ended. 

On the sixth night, Berte counted out the money evenly, then divided her pile into two. Some invisible tension melted away from the set of her shoulders as she pushed two of the three piles towards him. "That's for you."

"Why are you dividing it like that?" Krugkoppe asked. 

"Dayenu," she said, using the words of the Hebrew song sung at Passover. It's enough.

"You’re celebrating the wrong holiday," he said, and Berte smiled. "Is it really, though?"

“What do you mean?” Berte asked. 

Krugkoppe thought for a moment, considering. It wasn’t that he wanted to be playing dreidel at Velvela’s house, but he enjoyed winning at something. Not just the results of winning -- though that was good -- but the exhilaration of the winning itself, and along with it, the frustration in the eyes of the boys like Reuven, who had spent their time tormenting and teasing him for most of their years. 

He wanted to continue to have Berte's luck pour through him via the dreidel. He wanted to see her every night, to make her laugh with his bad jokes. He wanted the accidental touches of their hands as they sorted through money, the smiles she gave him as she brought him the pastries she'd pocketed as much as he wanted the pastries themselves. 

All this ran through his head in a rush like a dam bursting. 

“Can you really ever have enough?” Krugkoppe asked, instead of saying any of that out loud. “Chanukah is only a few more nights. If your dreidel’s luck holds -- why stop now?” 

Berte stared at him so intently that Krugkoppe began to blush, wondering again if she could read his thoughts. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Tomorrow, then, if you’re willing.”

“Tomorrow,” Krugkoppe echoed, and pushed the money back at her. Their fingers brushed briefly. 

Afterwards, Krugkoppe realized he’d never asked why Berte had needed money at all. But even a cooper’s daughter might need something of her own, he consoled himself. 

\---

The seventh night of Chanukah, the party was smaller than some of the previous days, and the dreidel game broke up sooner than usual. But still there was money, and food, and Berte’s hands dividing the pile of kopeks evenly.

On the eighth night of Chanukah, he found himself whistling a song as he walked to Velvela’s house. He was warm despite the chill of the wintry late afternoon, and he would be seeing Berte soon. 

But Velvela’s house was emptier than the previous nights, and Velvela met him at the door with a frown and her arms crossed. 

“Why are you here?” she asked bluntly.

“Your Chanukah party,” Krugkoppe said.

“Berte is the only reason why you’re invited, and Berte isn’t here,” Velvela responded. Her dark eyes flashed. “If you want to come in, you have to find Berte and bring her yourself. Otherwise, go stick yourself in a mud pile like where you belong.” 

“Fine,” Krugkoppe said shortly, and turned on his heel before she could slam the door in his face as she was clearly itching to do. Fuming, he headed off towards Berte’s house.

Suddenly, a leg jutted out in front of Krugkoppe, and before he could move, he had tripped and was sprawled in the mud. Another person grabbed his arms and held them tightly behind him.

“Not so lucky now, huh?” came Reuven’s voice.

Krugkoppe struggled, but couldn’t break free. It must be Mendel holding him; Mendel was like an ox -- strong and slow, though usually sweet-tempered. 

Reuven moved into his view, holding a stick like a club. Kreindel hovered next to him like a nervous rabbit. “You’ve been cheating and we know it. Now we’re going to get our money back.” 

Too late, Krugkoppe realized the depth of the anger that had been building in the other boys. As much as he had enjoyed winning at dreidel, the others must have hated losing. 

“I wasn’t cheating you!” Krugkoppe said frantically. Mendel’s grip on his arms was like iron. “It was the dreidel, not me.”

“We all checked the dreidel, it was normal,” Kreindel said. “Reuven, maybe we should -- “

“Have him spin the dreidel again,” rumbled Mendel. 

“I’m in charge here,” said Reuven. “Sure, Dung-koppe, maybe you weren’t cheating. Spin the dreidel. If it’s gimmel, then you’re just lucky, and you can luckily run away from here.”

“But if he fixed it, then it would -- “ Kreidel started.

“Shut up, Kreindel!” Reuven snarled. 

“Okay,” Krugkoppe said. “Can I have my arms back, then?” Mendel obligingly let go. Krugkoppe shook out his arms and considered his options. Every time he’d spun the dreidel away from Velvela’s table, it had been a normal dreidel. He could try to run, but the other boys would catch up with him quickly, and he had learned long ago that no adults would save him.

He took the dreidel out from his pocket, squatted into the dirt, and spun the dreidel, praying that Berte’s luck would hold for a little while longer.

The dreidel spun without its usual weak wobbles, for much longer than it ever had at Velvela’s house. All four boys watched the dreidel as it whirled around and around, and finally landed.

On gimmel.

“I told you I was lucky,” Krugkoppe said, picking up Berte’s dreidel quickly. 

“Lucky shit,” Reuven sneered, and made a move to punch him. 

But this time, Mendel grabbed Reuven’s arm. “We promised,” Mendel reminded him.

“Chag sameach,” Krugkoppe said, and sprinted off for Berte’s house.

\---

He had never been in Berte’s house before, though he knew where it was: the whole town knew where everyone lived. 

He knocked on the front door, expecting Berte to answer. Instead, her mother Anja opened the door with a snarl.

“ _You_ ,” she said in a tone of utter loathing. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if -- “

“If you could defile my daughters, is that it?” Anja shrieked at full volume. 

Krugkoppe’s mouth dropped open.

“I’ve had enough of selfish, stinking men like you around here!” Anja continued, yelling at insults at him, his father, his entire lineage. Krugkoppe took a few steps back, but Anja’s rage was undiminished.

A movement at an upstairs window surprised him, and he glanced up. He saw Berte standing there, her eyes wide, mouthing _stay, stay_. Several moments later, a figure -- Berte! -- started climbing slowly out of the window, covered in warm wrappings that covered nearly her whole head except for her eyes. 

As Anja yelled at him, Krugkoppe's eyes nearly crossed as he tried not to give away that there was a swathed figure now climbing onto the roof. Berte motioned to the back of the house. Krugkoppe gave a slight twitch of his head in acknowledgment and then tried to look penitent in front of Anja, who was continuing to harangue him. 

"I will not have my daughters made into whores by boys like you," she said, calling him the orphan son, the son of the shikker, the bastard who no one wanted. He attempted to look penitent, letting the words roll off of him (they were nothing he hadn’t heard before), until finally, Anja's rage had run itself down and she slammed the door. 

Krugkoppe made a long, slow circle out of Anja's view from the window facing the street, until he came to the back of the house, where Berte was waiting for him over the back of the house, her legs dangling off the roof. 

He thought she might climb slowly down, but on seeing Krugkoppe was there, she jumped from the roof onto him. Krugkoppe only had a second to react and brace himself for impact until suddenly the hooded figure was on top of him, practically squashing him to the ground. He strangled a yelp in his throat. 

Only after the figure had rolled off of him and started readjusting her scarves did he realize -- it wasn't Berte at all. It was Perle, her older sister. She was taller and thinner than her sister, her hair wavier and her eyes a little more manic, though still the same lovely color. 

"Perle?" he said in a whisper. 

She shushed him before he could even get to the second syllable of her name. She watched, wild-eyed, for movement from the house. 

"I have to get to Warsaw," she finally said in a whisper. Her words seemed a million miles away from anything Krugkoppe was expecting. "Janus is waiting for me at the train station. I need to get to Janus."

"Janus?" he said. 

"He is waiting for me. We are going to be married," she insisted. "I am carrying his child."

If Krugkoppe hadn't been flat on the ground, he would have fallen over in his shock. 

"Okay then, so -- "

"You have to take me to the train in Oświęcim," she said.

"That's miles from here, and the train passes through in...a few hours," he calculated quickly. "We'll have to start walking now."

"My ankle hurts," Perle said. "You'll need to carry me."

"Your ankle..." Krugkoppe rubbed his temples. "Then why did you jump down?"

Perle looked up at him with limpid eyes. "Berte said I could trust you."

Krugkoppe ran through a number of swear words under his breath. "Okay then. Wait here." 

There was only one way that he could get her to the train station now: a horse. Which Krugkoppe did not have. But he knew his way into Avrum's family's stables: he had even slept there, a night or two (or more than that) for warmth, and even sometimes food.

As quietly as he could, he crept to where Avrum's family kept their horse. The horse was sleeping lightly in that way horses could sleep while still standing, nickering quietly as Krugkoppe cajoled it forwards and out of the stall. After a moment, he grabbed the saddle and reins as well. 

The street was dark, all of the Chanukah candles long past having burnt out, but still, Krugkoppe worried someone might see him stealing the horse away. He boosted Perle up onto the horse, then climbed up with the help of a fencepost. 

"Let's go," he said, as much to the town as it was to Perle.

\---

The whole ride to the train station, Perle talked about Janus -- how wise he was, how sweet, how clever, how talkative, how much he loved her and would provide for her and the child she carried inside of her. 

Over the miles they rode, it became something of a mantra of madness to Krugkoppe's ears, and he worried sickly that this was all a delusion in Perle's mind, that he had run away with a pregnant woman and he would be stuck with her forever, bound to protect this crazy girl.

When they made it to the train station, it was vacant. Perle sat on the platform, humming patiently, while Krugkoppe paced. 

With mere minutes to spare before the train arrived, Janus arrived first, looking like a romantic hero from a theatrical show. Perle ran to him, her ankle forgotten, and was swept up in his embrace. 

Krugkoppe looked away. It was painful to look at them, like they were naked with how much emotion they expressed. 

The train arrived. The conductor came by. Perle paid for her and Janus's train tickets with a purse full of kopeks. Krugkoppe recognized each and every one of them. 

\---

He arrived back in Taykh Taykh just as the sun burst over the horizon. The horse was well-lathered and walking slowly, but Krugkoppe kept urging it on, hoping that he could get it back to Avrum's family's stable before anyone woke up and noticed the horse was gone.

He made it, but only just: after he had filled the horse's feedbox and as he was wiping the sweat off of the horse's flanks, a shadow fell across the stall, and Krugkoppe looked up to see Avrum's father Freyde standing in the entrance. 

"I didn't -- I haven't -- the horse is fine," Krugkoppe stammered out. 

Freyde looked at him, and then to his horse. "You're taking better care of him than Avrum does," he said mildly. "You must be a good rider, if you went so far overnight and returned."

Krugkoppe blinked. This was not what he had expected, but it also felt wrong to say that the reason he knew how to treat the horse well was because it was the only way he could sneak carrots out of the feedbox without getting kicked. 

"Sometimes I need to take long hauls out of town, but I'm getting old for that. Maybe in the future, you'd be interested in doing that for me." Freyde smiled gently. "I'll pay you, naturally."

"Sure," Krugkoppe replied, confusedly.

"I hope you got Perle out all right," Freyde continued.

"Reb Freyde?" Krugkoppe asked, but Freyde only shook his head. 

"No need to talk about it further, it'll only anger Anja. Come, we have some leftovers from last night's meal for breakfast, since Reb Hyram didn't feed the town again."

Stifling a yawn, Krugkoppe followed Freyde into his house. Well, no matter what else happened today, at least he would be fed.

\--- 

Berte wasn't in school that day, nor the day after. After a few days of her not showing up, Avrum cleared out her desk, as well as her sister's. It wasn't uncommon for girls to stop showing up to school like that, their parents deciding that they'd been educated enough and to learn any more would ruin their marriage prospects.

If he ever had a daughter, Krugkoppe would let her learn as much as she wanted, until her mind was full to bursting.

Soon Krugkoppe’s life fell into a new pattern. In the daytime Krugkoppe went to school, or did odd jobs with Freyde or some of the other men of the town. At night he stayed inside his house and read. In the evenings, though, he read by the river, even when it was bitterly cold, waiting to see if Berte would show up. 

A week passed, then two, before Berte made it to the riverbank, standing even straighter than his favorite tree. They stared at each other for a long time before Krugkoppe finally spoke. 

"I have your dreidel." It was in his pocket still, cold and beautiful. 

"I don't want it back," she said.

"It brought me some luck that was more properly yours," Krugkoppe said. "Or so I finally realized."

"I see," Berte said, and then, after a long pause, "I'm sorry."

"I am owed an explanation," Krugkoppe said, when she seemed unwilling to say anything else. "It's your invention, I take it?"

"I made the dreidel," she said, "using Papa's tools." 

"I'd expect nothing else from the cooper's daughter. You're a marvel, but how did it always land on gimmel? If I'd known the secret of it, I wouldn't have risked getting my ass whooped by Reuven," he said. 

Berte winced. "I'm truly sorry. I told Avrum to make sure the other boys played, but I didn't realize how angry they'd get."

"You told Avrum about the dreidel?" Krugkoppe couldn't help the note of betrayal in his voice.

"Not everything," Berte said. "Just -- just that he should make sure the boys play at Velvela's party, and to include you if the other boys refused. And Velvela knew that she needed to throw the party, and to make sure that the table was set out for the boys each night. Not -- the rest of it was a secret between Perle and me."

Krugkoppe tilted his head as he looked at her, inviting her to say more.

"Do you know what magnets are, Krugkoppe?" Krugkoppe shook his head. "They are pieces of metal that respond to other pieces of metal, they want to be closer to get it. I read about it in a book by Mr. Verne. After I read it, I experimented...There was a special metal in that table of Velvela's. I knew that if I put a magnet into the dreidel and sealed it to one side, then if it was spun on Velvela's table, then it would always land on the side I wanted it to land on. I tricked you into spinning the dreidel for me. I tricked all the boys in the village. I took your money and I used it to send my sister away with her lover."

"You used me," Krugkoppe said bluntly.

"I used you because I couldn't play dreidel myself. If my mother realized I was playing, she would have punished me and confiscated the money. This was the only way I could get the money to pay for Perle's train ticket."

"If this is you using me, it turned out pretty well for me, too," Krugkoppe said. "But why me? Why not Avrum?"

Berte shrugged. "I thought...I thought you might be able to keep a secret, without questioning me too much. Avrum tells his parents everything." And Krugkoppe had no parents to tell, she didn't have to say.

"You could have told me it was for Perle. I understand what someone would do to help their sister."

Berte could not meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was lower and quieter. "You understand what it's like not to want people to know what your living situation is like."

Krugkoppe swallowed. "You wanted to give me money, too. You wanted to help us both."

"Is that wrong of me?" Berte asked. "I didn't keep any of the money for myself. You've been compensated for what you did. If you hate me, say it. I deserve it." Her fists clenched tightly, her fingers curled up into her palms. Her back was rigid. 

"You should have told me," Krugkoppe said gently. "I would have kept your secret, too. And I wouldn't have been so worried about this strange streak of luck I had. It was very unlike me. I thought I was borrowing yours."

"I don't have any luck, either," Berte said. 

"Then we're birds of a feather," Krugkoppe said. 

Berte giggled at that. "Thank you, Krugkoppe," she said. 

"Will you be able to contact Perle?" Krugkoppe asked.

"We've set up a relay, with some of her friends. She'll write to me, care of them. If she sent letters to our house, my mother would confiscate them."

"That's good."

"I don't know when I'll ever see her again. Or her child."

"You will, someday," Krugkoppe said. (She would not, but he didn't know that then.)

He expected her to leave, but she kept standing by the tree, one hand playing with the curls at the end of her long hair. 

"Krugkoppe, may I do something strange?" Berte asked him hesitantly. 

Krugkoppe could not imagine what Berte would think was strange now, but he nodded. 

Berte stepped closer, tilted her head up, and kissed him on the mouth, a gentle dry-lipped peck. 

His body crackled with her presence. The blood rushed from his head. His mind emptied with all thoughts but his wanting, for her to continue doing this, forever if he could manage it. 

It was over too soon -- her soft lips removed from his cracked ones. She stepped back, frowning slightly. "I do not understand," she said, mostly to herself. "Why would Perle give up everything for that?" 

He wanted to kiss her more than anything else in the world. He would do anything to have her that close to him again. 

"Maybe that's not the kind of kiss that makes people give up their whole world, Berte," he heard himself saying. 

"What kind of kiss would that be, then?" Berte asked. 

Krugkoppe felt himself flush. "I'm not an expert on kissing, Berte."

"You seem to know more than me," she said, her hands on her hips in a posture he remembered from school, from arguments during play in childhood. 

"What, is that a challenge?"

"Show me then," she said. "If you can."

Krugkoppe took an unsteady breath and licked his lips, then took a step closer to her. Their heads were almost at the same height, so he only had to lean down a little to kiss her.

Her lips were slightly parted and very warm in the cool winter air.

He kissed her and felt the world swirl around him, he felt her hands trace his cheeks and run through his hair. Inside he was boiling over. He could feel the heat from her body even through their clothes. His hands felt the silk of her hair, finer than any fabric in the world. Her tongue pushed gently at his lips, and he opened his mouth by instinct, hoping to drink her in.

They broke apart at last. He did not know how long the kiss lasted for -- a minute? A moment? -- but it had not been long enough. Berte’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth still parted open. 

"That was -- an education,” Berte said at last. "I must go now. My mother will be looking for me.”

She kept glancing over her shoulder as she walked away, looking back at him, as if she was afraid he’d leave. As if she wanted to stay. 

\-- 

If Krugkoppe had been the hero of a folktale, the story would end here. 

If he lived in a story, Krugkoppe would sleep with Berte's dreidel by his bed every night. He would live off the winnings from her dreidel, invest it in an honest trade, work himself up into a man who could make a living. Her parents would accept their request to be married, and they could live together, as safe and as happy as any Jews could be.

But Krugkoppe was the son of a shikker, and he could not depend on miracles, or on luck: he could only survive with tricks. 

That night, Krugkoppe pushed his way into the tavern. Hyram was at the bar. Krugkoppe put the dreidel down before him. 

"Ten zlotys, Hyram," he said.

"Chanukah's over, boy," Hyram said lazily. "What use do I have for your dreidel trick now?"

"One zloty for the dreidel," Krugkoppe said. "Nine zlotys for the trick."

Hyram's eyes roamed over Krugkoppe's face, probing for weakness. "That's a lot of money for just one trick, though," Hyram said. "I would need you to tell me of some other tricks you discover, now and then."

Krugkoppe swallowed. "For that price, then," he said. "In the future."

"For that price," Hyram agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Chanukah, everyone! I started this story last fall hoping to have it done for Chanukah in 2019. It is finished at last, many eons later. 
> 
> I tried to translate most of the Yiddish in-story this time, but if there's anything that people are confused by, let me know in the comments.


End file.
